They’d finally come back from Brewskis. He needed to figure out a better way for transportation to and from the base, for Amelia, Olivia, and frankly for Stacey. This being dependent on the good will of Whitley to teleport, or taking the damn jet tied things to the Alliance too closely. There were a couple of boats, but he needed to talk to William about buying a garage near one of the small marinas here for a couple cars to be parked relatively nearby, at least to the marina and then a couple small speedboats. It wasn’t fair for the family members.
He sat on her bed watching her sleep, and she was out. No matter what she claimed about being ready, the excitement of the parade, and the stress of wanting to “do something,” and the corresponding arguments with everyone about it, plus, well, she was out hard. She lay on her back, one arm sprawled out over the top of her head, laying like one half of an X across the bed. He smiled when he saw she was wearing the Innocent of Riddles band T-shirt from the concert they’d gone too for her birthday.
Regardless of what he wanted to think, she wasn’t as innocent as he would have liked. He didn’t know what trauma was there from the Courtney issue, and he was going to find out, no matter what. Eventually. While he may not be willing to admit all of his own trauma, he was slowly making progress and even if it meant going to Downs more frequently, he was going to get there. For her, for them, for himself. That’s one of the main reasons he was concerned about the whole Red Widow possibilities. Oh, for sure, he feared for the real possibility of her injury or even death, if she actually decided to pursue it long term. Intellectually, he understood it. But he was only really starting to figure out his own childhood traumas and how they drove all the events later in life, and he wanted her to start with the biggest advantage she could, and that meant understanding it.
He leaned in, kissing her forehead, before brushing her hair back, murmuring, “Love you, my little spitfire.”
He got up, and went back towards the bedroom he shared with his…..lover. Former fiancée seemed so distant. Kid’s mother wasn’t very sexy. They weren’t engaged, nor married, and girlfriend sounded so banal for two ex-special forces soldiers who had finally found each other again.
He sat on the edge of the bed, just looking at her sitting up with the pillows as a backrest.
“I told yo’ she was asleep,” the brunette said.
“I know, I didn’t doubt yo’. I just, well, I missed too many of these nights, and I don’t want to miss any more,” smiling a bit wistfully as he replied. “But she’s got to get her mouth and her attitude under control if she really want’s to be part of this.”
“So do yo,” Amelia replied rather tartly.
“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, are we?” as his features slowly close down.
“Don’t you fuckin’ use that controlled expression on me, Brett Anderson.”
He sighed, “I told ya’ that I still love her, Amelia. You want me to close my reactions off for that but not for this.”
“Damn right,” she snarled before reaching out to grab his hand. “I don’t want yo’ slammin’ down any more glasses or shattering them in your bloody hands when she’s going off on who’s she’s out pashin’ on or even if she’s rootin’ every slinging sleeze downtown. Yo’ made your choice.”
He sighs, “I kno’ what I did, Bomber.”
“None of that now, Brett, I’m serious. If you need to take a break for a while, then tell me. I can leave for a bit.”
He panicked for a minute, clenching his teeth, gripping tightly to her hand, as his image wavers for a moment as his skin takes on the sheet of the darkened room, “Damn it ‘melia, I am not letting you two out of here. I just have to fix some things. Whatever else happened, I have got to fix the shit I have done to the team.”
She looks up at him, the slightly yellow tinge to his eyes an indication she has already learned to see that he’s fighting some strong emotions. She realizes that she’s pushed enough, or pushed in that direction hard enough anyway.
She leans back, stretching languidly, letting the sheets slide down, letting his eyes take in the surplus Australian Army t-shirt she’d found in one of the crates of supplies her obsessed lover had obviously stockpiled, along with the incredible array of weapons, ammunition, and frankly just…..stuff. She knew he thought had it organized…..like a tactical specialist. Her specialties had been medical and supply.
The small lamp in the corner doesn’t do much to light this former barracks room, but he doesn’t need much light as a memory takes him, and his eyes glint with a different emotion as he notices that the shirt is the only thing she’s wearing. He yanks the blankets, letting them flutter off the bed, and the buttons of his shirt pop almost like the faint echoes of gunfire as he rips it off. With a sibilant whisper, “I sss’eee the dye is incomplete……,” as he pulls her towards the bottom of the bed, “Le’ me ssssho’ you one of the other changesssssss thisssss hasss made.”
She starts to protest as she lifts her head back off the bed, glancing down to where is glowing eyes remain visible, looking toward her, his hot breath on the insides of her thighs but then she felt his tongue reach out, flicking one and then the other thigh, sliding over spots in no way reachable for someone who’s eyes are still visible, watching her as a small gasp escapes her. She breathlessly says, “I didn’t want to change everything,” before moaning at an unexpected penetration.
She’s completely surprised by how quickly the moans have turned to panting screams, as her flailing hands have grasped the sheet covering the bed, as her whole body quivers, her legs and thighs trying to close round his head, but unable to because of the immense strength of his hands, and the distance he’s able to keep from her.
She’s gasping so loud that she can’t say anything as his tongue moves onto other, “lower” areas, at least based on gravity. “Brett…….oh, my god, Brett…..,” she screams, something their daughter never heard in a dozen years in the old house, and she stirs in her sleep, rolling over.
“Now, please…..” and somehow during the last twenty minutes he’s got his jeans off without her even noticing. He slides upward, entering her, and she’s loses all coherent thought.
Sometime later, he “lies” on top of her, her legs still wrapped around him, she can feel him expended, but still inside her, his mouth laying next to her ear, breathing heavily, one of her arms thrown back, another bent and wrapped around him, her hand in his hair, his beard scratching the nape of her neck. She knows his full weight is not completely on her, but instinctually he seems to be able to control his body with his enhanced strength or coordination or whatever to feel relaxed, but not a dead weight. “How….what’s different tonight……” she pants. “I mean, the last two months have been amazing…but….”
“I have my secrets,” Brett replies, before letting his lips brush her ear lobe, “but maybe it’s the combination of brunette and blonde,” he continues, laughing lightly.
“Holy fucking bogans, Brett.”
“Are you guys fucking done finally? Because this fucking rookie needs her sleep.” In a more subdued voice, obviously muffled by a pillow, “Fucking get a different room.”
Brett chuckled quietly as his senses felt the heat of a flush run through Amelia’s chest and face, even as the sweaty bodies had begun to cool slightly from the ceiling fan he had installed the day before, when they decided to move back.
“What’s different? You’re home. With me. Permanently. Whatever else needs worked out, whatever…..conditions or accommodations or whatever we still need to accomplish, you and Olivia are home.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and as she moved, she could feel him stir. She started to make a comment about his rejuvenative powers. She slaps his back, “Roll over you over-conditioned sand dancer.”
He disengaged from the tangle of limbs, before rolling over onto his back, his head propped by one bent arm, as she lies down next to him, head on his chest, arm trailing down to grasp him, lightly stroking, before reaching over to kiss him deeply.
When the deeply passionate but light kiss ends, he says, “We don’t have to.”
“Are yo’ saying I can’t keep up with yo’ because I don’t have super-powers,” she whispers, “or because I’m old?”
“Neither….yo’ old buffer,” he snickers, although he gasps slightly when she flicks instead of strokes.
“We’ll see about that you dried up husk.” Then she plants her hand on his rock-hard stomach, using it to spin her body one hundred eighty degrees in a modified combat roll, but he reacts so quickly that his hands grasp her around the hips, keeping her high off his body.
“Amelia,” his voice thick with emotions, “Yo’ don’t ever need to.”
“Put me down Brett,” and as he slowly does, she continues, “for the first time in a long time, I want to,” and before he can respond she takes him in her mouth, and its his turn to gasp in shock and desire.
For a couple minutes he completely relaxes, watching her ass move as she shifts continuously. Then he leans forward, letting his tongue unroll to its transformed length, and enters her.
He loses himself in the rhythm, totally avoiding controlling his reactions as all so that when they both are moaning deep in the passion, it hits them both simultaneously.
Neither of them got up to shower and clean up, and he held her until they both fell asleep. He slept, fully relaxed for thirty minutes, and although short, maybe some of the deepest most restful sleep he’d had in months.
He slowly disentangled from her sleeping body, before getting up and hopping in the shower, sitting in the corner chair in his boxers, watching her sleep with the more than dim light of the stars shining in the small window, or more than dim for his eyes anyway.
He slid some old fatigue pants on and left silently through the door into the hallway, taking a right and walking through most of the empty barracks, that while updated had been meant for temporary guests. The long hallway to the medical bay was kept clean by Apex’s cleaning drones, but still smelled unused, stale, unlike the pristine medical bay he walked through next. He wasn’t running, not even jogging, but old habits die hard and it wasn’t a leisurely walk as he marched through the halls, through the dining and recreational sections, through the team apartments all the way to the next main bay, where he started to turn to go down the stairs, but instead went through the hallway and stood, breathing deeply over his unfurled sensory nodes in his tongue. The times he’d stopped outside Henri’s condo had been calming, seeing her alone he never took the time. Here, at his home, where every scent, every flow of air was memorized, even standing outside the door he could tell she’d been telling the truth. There were foreign scents, minute, how many it was too hard to tell, but now that he was searching, they were there. Not in the base, but on her. Even the chemicals and dye she used on her hair didn’t completely eliminate them, not from him, not from one that knew those currents, those glands, those strands of air. If anyone could see him, the rage and pain that suffused his distorted face would not have been recognizable but he caught himself before he knocked more than lightly one time on the door.
The music thumped through the door, at least to his ears,
I like that you’re broken
Broken like me
Maybe that makes me a fool
I like that you’re lonely
Lonely like me
I could be lonely with you
She hadn’t even told him about her teleportation plats. God what had he done. Was there no right answer?
He left much more quickly, running lightly through the halls of the base, routine drilled into him no matter emotion. After he returned to the other, he quickly slid into the door, before he returned to the darkened chair in the corner, mist in his eyes obscuring the bed to where an image lightly superimposed itself over reality.
In the shadows he could see three bodies lying in a bigger bed, a king instead of the double in the room right now.
The question he had to figure out, the question he needed to know, from the raw need surging through his emotions, is whether the dream vision was wishful thinking, or one of the few true precognitive dreams he so rarely received, or so rarely recognized. How did he make sure this one came true without completely fucking it up? Could he pass a small little white falsehood to one to push that image closer to truth? He knew he had to try, and truly hope, maybe pray even to something, for the best outcome, because otherwise he knew, absolutely knew deep inside, that his guilt, anger, pain, and, yes, loneliness would destroy any happiness he could achieve. He’d always been an all or nothing kind of guy, so he made up his mind and as he stood up…..
Of course that was when Brant’s alert came over his damn commlink.
Last Dreams 